Aug 28 the abandoned stairwell // hannah doan

You can almost hear a music box playing. A memory, that belongs to a song you used to hum as a child. The abandoned stairwell listens always. It cries in loneliness, remembering the tune. The behemoth oak trees are bare and gray, hovering over the stairwell, mocking its agony. The leaves of Autumn are still scattered on its steps; left there to rot with winter as the trees continue to laugh in their au courant crystals of the fourth season. They laugh at the mess they've left on the stairwell, always mocking. The trees never listen to the stairwell's vespers of sadness and please for joy. The trees only hover, all winter long, lowering and threatening, lest the stairwell fall away into darkness